Last Dance
by Sheytune
Summary: Steve knows he needs to mourn Peggy and move on, which would be easier if she'd stop hanging around.
Note: I don't know what this is, exactly.

* * *

He'd known grief before. He'd lost his mother when he was barely more than a child. He'd watched his best friend die in the war. When he'd been rescued from the ice, he'd mourned the loss of the life he might have had.

Losing Peggy should have been easier. She'd lived a full life, and the girl he'd known wouldn't have wanted to live confined to a hospital bed, unable to rely on her body or her mind from one moment to the next. It should be a relief that she no longer needed to depend on others for the most personal of tasks, no longer needed to be afraid of everything she couldn't remember.

As much as he tried to tell himself that she was better off leaving the pain and fear behind, he knew his world had gotten a little colder, a little darker. After Manhattan, and Sokovia, and the discovery that Bucky was alive, talking with Peggy had grounded him, helped him to remember why he kept going when he wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out.

He should have been, if not happy, at least relieved that her pain was over, but he had spent most of the funeral wanting to hit someone – Tony, who kept muttering to Jarvis as if he had somewhere better to be; Barton, who kept repeating platitudes; Banner, who said all the right things but didn't seem at all affected at the sight of Peggy lying in her coffin. If it hadn't been for Nat's whispered, "She was tough. I liked her.", he wasn't sure he would have made it through the service. He'd never been happier to escape.

* * *

He twisted the cap off the flask of Asgardian mead and took a drink, then another. By the time he stumbled into bed, the pain was a little less vivid.

* * *

He woke without a trace of a hangover and stumbled into the shower. Ten minutes later, he had showered, shaved, and discovered he had no desire to go to work. He pulled on some sweats and picked up his phone to text Nat, then slumped on the couch and picked up the remote, staring blankly at the screen in front of him.

"Really, Steve? Is this how you spend a Wednesday morning?"

Heels clicked across the hardwood floor, and Peggy settled onto the couch beside him, looking like she'd just stepped out of 1945. Her uniform was picture perfect, every hair was in place, and her lipstick was immaculate.

He spared her a glance, then turned his attention back to the TV. "You're not real."

She snagged the remote out of his hand. "Of course I'm real. And you need to go to work."

The TV turned off as she walked out of the room, taking the remote with her.

By the time he got to the bedroom, she was gone. Reluctantly, he dressed for the day and went to work.

* * *

By the time he got home, he was tired, sweaty, and utterly convinced that her earlier visit was some sort of grief-induced hallucination, so he was more than a little annoyed to find her curled up in his favourite chair, her heels dropped carelessly on the floor beside it. He ignored her, dropping his bag by the door and heading for the shower.

He pulled on a pair of sweats after his shower and made his way to the kitchen. She was still sitting in his chair, and she smiled appreciatively as he walked by. He made himself a sandwich and brought it into the living room to eat, pointedly ignoring Peggy.

Of course, Peggy wasn't a fan of being ignored.

"How long are you going to ignore me?"

"Can't ignore someone who isn't here."

She moved, settling herself so that she was leaning against the armrest, her cheek resting on her hand. "You know", she mused, "I do appreciate seeing you without your shirt. If it had been up to me, I would have seen you like this a lot more during the war."

He ignored the sudden heat in his face and took another bite of the sandwich.

* * *

They spent the next few days caught in a kind of limbo. She'd needle and push, and he'd ignore her until he couldn't resist replying. Once he did, they'd laugh and talk like the old friends they were.

He thought about asking Sam to find him whatever kind of doctor dealt with people who were hallucinating dead ex-SHIELD directors, but he could never quite bring himself to take that first step. Even if it was a sign that he was losing his mind, he didn't want to give her up.

A week after Peggy's funeral, she met him at the door wearing the red dress he'd seen so often in his dreams.

"I have to go", she said.

He'd spent the week trying to deny that she was there, so it shouldn't have been a shock, but somehow it was.

"I have people waiting for me", she continued. "Today is our last day."

"Can't you stay?"

She shook her head. "I'm almost out of time. We have one last night together. Let's make the most of it."

She led him to the kitchen. His small table was covered in a crisp red tablecloth. A bottle of champagne sat in a bucket of ice. He sat, and Peggy served them both plates of steaming hot food he recognized as the specialty of the restaurant down the block.

They lingered, trying to fit a lifetime of conversation into a single meal. When they were finally finished, Peggy stood and held out her hand. She led him into the living room, and, at a wave of her hand, the stereo started playing an old, romantic tune. "May I have this dance?" she asked.

"Anytime", he replied, pulling her into his arms.

He'd never learned how to dance, but they spent hours in each other's arms, swaying to the music, then stumbling through some moves she tried to teach him. It grew dark, when the stereo clicked off, she led him into the bedroom. They fell asleep wrapped in each other's arms.

He woke alone.

So I don't know when I will be able to see Civil War, so no spoilers, please. (I broke my leg and have to spend most of my time lying down, which is difficult in a movie theatre._


End file.
